Baptisms of Fire
by kissmyathos
Summary: A collection of standalone h/c ficlets and episode tags. PG-13 for period-typical violence, otherwise G, low on angst. I ran out of space to detail all the chapters, so you'll just have to read and find out! Chapter 9 is a follow-up to Chapter 8, set during season 1: Aramis and d'Artagnan have made it out of their sticky situation, but there's still a musket ball to deal with...
1. Pre-Series: Aramis & Marsac

The attack had been well-planned, well-executed, and doomed to fail; a dozen highwaymen, no matter how well they did against local farmers and small-time merchants, could not hope to prevail against an equal number of Musketeers. Four of the cocky thieves lay dead, and at least another handful of wounded had been helped away by their fellows, disappearing into the undergrowth. The Musketeers had been ready to follow, but Captain Treville regrouped his soldiers with a long whistle and had them ride on. The mission was for La Rochelle, and they had to make the halfway point by sundown. They would be back, Treville assured them, for the others.

Two Musketeers had caught bullets in the first moments of the fray, and by the time they stopped to make camp, both were riding double with a friend. Half the men went about normal campsite activities—firewood, water, making dinner—while the other half, under Saint-Simon's direction, maneuvered the wounded men off horseback and onto bedrolls. Treville kept one eye on the bustle as he consulted a map and confirmed that they were, in fact, within a musket-shot of their intended stopping point. Rolling up the map again, his forearm twinged a reminder, and he scanned the men for two in particular. There they were—together, of course.

"Marsac, Aramis," he called. They came and stood at-ease in front of Treville.

Eagle-eyed Aramis noticed right away. "Sir," he said, "you're wounded. I'll fetch Saint-Simon..."

Treville interrupted. "Saint-Simon is busy. It's time you two had a living patient."

Aramis' eyebrows went up.

Marsac visibly blanched. "Sir—"

"In case I didn't make myself clear, that's an order." Treville started unlacing his doublet. As he pulled it off, he saw his newest Musketeers looking over his shoulder and followed their gaze to an amused Cornet, standing with his arms full of firewood and clearly enjoying the exchange. "Don't look at him, he's not going to help you."

"The captain's doing you a favor, lads," Cornet said brightly. "He's quiet and he's not particular about how the scar comes out."

"As you were," Treville growled without force. Cornet freed one hand enough to clap Marsac encouragingly on the shoulder and moved away. Treville started rolling up his left sleeve and said, "Get your kits."

Marsac and Aramis both saluted crisply and double-timed away in search of their saddle bags, gone before Treville could remind them they weren't in the army anymore. He shook his head. _Let's hope they pick up new skills faster than they drop old habits._ He'd had them, and several others, practicing their needlework the past few weeks on fresh pig- or goat-hide—whatever came attached to the stew-meat—and now was as good a time as any for them to make the leap to sewing up their comrades. Aramis in particular had a knack for it; he'd confessed, under duress, that his mother had made him do mending as a child, his punishment whenever he ran off to watch the soldiers.

Treville sat tailor-style on the ground and Marsac joined him, but Aramis lingered, peering into the large pot slung over the fire.

"Is it soup yet?" he asked nearby Vernier.

"What are you, a walking stomach?" Vernier grumbled. "Not yet. It will be."

"Then you won't mind if I..." Aramis pulled a handkerchief from his doublet and dunked it in the pot.

"Hey, that's not your wash-water, that's our dinner!"

Aramis grinned. "Not yet!" He joined Treville and Marsac where they sat, folding his sopping handkerchief into fourths.

Marsac gave him a long-suffering look. "Please tell me that was clean before you put it in the soup."

With an unconvincing shrug, Aramis passed Marsac the handkerchief. Marsac took it and held out a hand, and Treville offered up his wounded arm. It looked messy, with blood smeared almost up to his elbow and a thick trail drying down the back of his hand, but the slash itself was modest, starting on the outside edge of Treville's wrist and travelling diagonally over the back of his arm. He'd gotten too close to one of the highwaymen, correctly judging that he would have the advantage in a corps-a-corps, and incorrectly judging the man's supply of hidden knives, and the luck that would put that blade exactly in the space where his glove ended and his sleeve had ridden up.

Marsac worked around the periphery, ignoring the rivulets of bloody water that dripped onto his knee.

"Don't be so gentle," Treville instructed. "It's small, it's all right if it starts to bleed again. If you're going to sew it shut, you have to be able to see it."

Marsac obeyed. Blood began to well slowly where the knife had gone in deepest, but Treville ignored it, instead watching Aramis select a needle from the leather wallet and thread it with a single strand of horsehair.

"Make a plan," Treville prompted. "How many stitches?"

"Seven or eight?"

"Decide now."

"Eight."

Treville turned back to Marsac, who had finished cleaning the wound and was now pressing the cloth where it was bleeding. "Let's see."

Marsac took the handkerchief away. "I think it's stopped, sir." At Treville's nod, he wrung out the handkerchief onto the ground, tucked it into his belt, then braced Treville's arm with one hand above the wound and one below.

Aramis was looking at Treville's arm thoughtfully, with his head cocked to one side. "Sir, for a wound like this, couldn't we also just clean it and draw the edges together with a bandage?"

"We could," Treville allowed. "I see you've been talking to Saint-Simon and, yes, it can be wise to avoid needlework. But this time we will not."

Aramis nodded and lifted the needle, then hesitated for a long moment. He lowered it and said sheepishly, "I'm suppose I'm just used to hurting my enemies."

Treville had words of encouragement ready, but Marsac got there first: "Rubbish," he snorted. "You punched me in the face two days ago."

"You shouldn't have let me inside your guard."

"Well, I won't next time, so you punched me in the face but you may have also saved my life."

"Fair point." With half a smile, Aramis bent over Treville's arm and started to set the first stitch.

It hurt—it always hurt, usually more than the original wound—but Treville didn't show it, gave no grimace or intake of breath to distract his young surgeon. All he said was, "Keep it shallow." And then, when Aramis had gone about halfway, "Marsac?" Treville had not missed the glance that ran between them earlier, wordlessly arranging for Aramis to be the one sewing.

Aramis took Marsac's place bracing Treville's arm and Marsac reluctantly took the needle, saying, "It's not going to be as pretty. Aramis sews better than my sisters."

"I'm going to tell them you said that."

"As if I'd introduce you to my sisters."

Treville held up his good hand for silence. "Go on, Marsac."

The last four stitches were not as perfectly uniform, it was true, but they were at a good depth and none of them appeared to be pulling.

Treville looked up from his inspection into two nervous faces. "Well done, both of you. I'll clean and wrap it. Report to Saint-Simon and see if he needs any help."

"Now, sir?" Marsac seemed surprised.

"Why not now?"

"Thank you, sir."

Their hands flew up before Treville could remind them not to salute. _Well,_ he thought as they jogged away, o _ne step a time_.


	2. Tag: s01e01, Friends & Enemies

"Friends (Not Enemies)"

And so, without a word, without a note, Adele was gone.

Aramis rubbed his thumb over the mother-of-pearl inlay on the pistol, thinking that he would gladly throw it in a fire to have five minutes' talk with her. He wanted to ask her why. _Ha!_ As if he didn't know.

Still. Still...

And he wanted to hear her tease him, as she always did, that if he had been born a women, he might have made a very fine courtesan—and if she had been born a man, she might have been a musketeer. She would twine his hair around her fingers even as she scolded him for not understanding what it was like to be born both poor and female... a tender gesture which made it difficult to concentrate on the lesson...

Aramis shook his head violently to banish those memories and hooked the pistol back onto his belt. He was about to drop the cloth in the mud at her doorstep when he stopped. It wasn't a handkerchief, but maybe the cloth had lain among her things...? He started to bring it to his nose, then, disgusted with himself, threw it down.

He wanted it back as soon as it fell.

Obviously, going home and staring at his four little walls was out of the question, but he didn't want to talk to anyone, either. Good thing he knew just the drinking companion for the job.

Or so he thought. When he joined Athos, setting a new bottle of wine on the table between them, his friend eyed him blearily for a long, calculating moment, then said, "You can love someone, and still fail them."

"It's easier to be angry, thank you," Aramis said shortly, pouring his first cup and topping off Athos'.

"Much easier," Athos agreed. He leaned back in his chair and considered d'Artagnan, who was playing cards with Porthos and a couple of other tavern regulars. "What's he like?"

Aramis thought back over the whirlwind of the last day and said only, "I think you'll get on."

"That's hardly a sterling recommendation," Athos muttered into his cup.

"I can't tell if you're insulting yourself or me and Porthos."

"Myself, Aramis. Don't you know by now? Always myself." Athos' voice was raw with unexpected emotion and cheap wine, and after that he lapsed into silence, allowing them both to concentrate on the task at hand. Perversely enough, Aramis thought he might have liked to keep talking... but no matter.

A few hours later, Porthos stood with his arms crossed and tsked down at his two insensate companions. Aramis sat with his head tipped back, snoring lightly, and Athos was pitched forward onto the table with his head resting on his arm. He was just... being Athos... and Porthos had some idea of what was bothering Aramis tonight, but it was inconsiderate of them to both need dragging home.

D'Artagnan came to stand beside him.

"Would you look at these two?" Porthos said, shaking his head. "I'll take this one, you take that one." He nodded toward Aramis and moved to hoist Athos out of his chair.

"Right," said the young Gascon. But as soon as he put a hand on Aramis' arm, his wrist was caught in a vise-like grip and he found himself meeting two very angry dark brown eyes. He froze.

The anger quickly faded and the grip eased, and Aramis said thickly, "Oh, it's you."

"The tavern is closing."

"Hmph." Aramis scrubbed his face with his hands and yawned hugely. D'Artagnan held out a hand and Aramis clasped it and pulled himself up—but a shooting pain in his ribs made d'Artagnan falter and lose his grip, and Aramis fell awkwardly back into his chair.

"If I wanted to fall on my arse, I'd have stood up by myself," he grumbled. But then he noticed d'Artagnan was hunched over, with an arm wrapped around himself. His tone softened. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan said, straightening. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

Aramis shook his head and then regretted the motion as the room spun. "No, stop. Wait." He blinked a few times, then eyed D'Artagnan suspiciously. "When we came to get you from Madame Bonacieux's house, she was.. was she... wrapping a bandage around you?"

"You two coming?" Porthos asked. He was standing in the door already, half-carrying Athos.

"Our new duckling's got himself hurt," Aramis told him.

"Gaudet?"

"No, before," d'Artagnan said. "I fell. Well, I jumped. Out of a window. Why is that funny?"

"It's not," Aramis snapped at a chuckling Porthos. "It's not funny. Are you cut? Bruised?" he demanded.

"Just bruises," d'Artagnan said. "Landed on my hilt."

"Ah, beginner's mistake," Porthos said. "Right, Aramis?"

Aramis ducked his head, rubbed his forehead for a moment, and looked up at d'Artagnan with a crooked smile. "Probably cracked a rib, or a couple. Didn't feel a thing during the fight, did you?"

"Forgot all about it," d'Artagnan admitted.

"We'll try not to hit you there for a few days." Aramis pushed himself to his feet with a groan. He discovered that his new vantage point let him see which cups on the table still held wine. "Tell one of us if you get breathless or start coughing up blood," he added, draining one.

"I will."

Aramis looked skeptical, another cup in his hand. "Will you truly?"

D'Artagnan held up his right hand. "I promise."

Aramis reached over and ruffled d'Artagnan's hair—"Hey!"—and accepted the offer of his good shoulder for assistance out of the tavern.

"Aramis is our mother duck," Porthos explained as they walked.

"That's right," Aramis slurred. The last of his drinks had clearly made their way to his head. "Where would you be without me?"

"Dead."

"That's right."

They were not far from the tavern when Porthos called a halt to their little parade—after which Aramis remembered that this was his house.

"Right, right," he said. Fumbling for his keys, he asked D'Artagnan one more time, "Are you sure you're well?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

Suddenly Aramis wrapped a hand around the back of d'Artagnan's neck and pulled him in until their foreheads touched. "Even if you just start tasting blood, in the back of your throat, you say something, do you hear me?" he said earnestly. "I won't be angry." His eyes drifted closed, and his voice grew rough. "She could have just told me. I won't be angry. I won't."

"All right." D'Artagnan steered Aramis towards the door, which jogged Aramis' memory enough that he located his key and unlocked the door mostly without help. "Goodnight," d'Artagnan said as the door closed. He turned to Porthos. "What was that about?"

Porthos braced Athos up against a wall like a sack of grain. "Earlier, when he left, he was going to see a woman."

"I did figure that out."

"Yeah, but we shouldn't have seen him again until morning." There was a thump and a muffled curse from inside; Porthos winced. "Maybe it's for the best."

"How's that?"

"Remember when he asked if you and Madame Bonacieux were...?"

"Oh." D'Artagnan was young, and country-bred, but not stupid. "The woman in question is... not at liberty?"

"Terrible habit he's got. As bad as Athos, in his own way."

Emboldened by the darkness, and the wine, D'Artagnan asked, "What's your vice?"

Porthos' grin flashed white, and he slapped his stomach. "Apple tarts." He pulled Athos away from the wall and tucked him firmly against his side. "We're going to the garrison. Can you find Bonacieux's house from here?"

D'Artagnan just said, "Good night, Porthos."

"Good night, duckling."


	3. Pre-Series: Aramis & Marsac 2

_**Author's Note** : Thank you all for your kind words on Chapter 1! I (clearly) have a lot of thoughts and feelings about Aramis, Marsac, and what happened at Savoy. I think it's essential that Marsac really was the good soldier and good friend that Aramis and Treville describe, because the tragedy of "The Good Soldier" is built on contrast: Aramis was lucky in many ways, especially in finding Athos and Porthos, and on the flip side, this one traumatic experience consumed Marsac's life. All of which is to say, here is another pre-series ficlet, reaching back even before their Musketeer days..._

* * *

Aramis stood stiffly, using the bench for support, but despite the bloody stripes marking his back, he didn't make a sound and his face was perfectly calm. He took his shirt and doublet from Marsac and draped them over one arm. "Thank you."

"Just returning the favor."

They shared a smile at that; several feet away, curling the whip around his hand, the quartermaster saw it and ground his teeth. Would nothing take the smug shine off these two?

The answer was yes, but not where he could see. In the barracks, Aramis dropped his clothes onto his billet and sat next to them with a groan. He was familiar with the feeling of ten lashes—though not as familiar as Marsac—and the bone-deep burning in his back did not feel like ten lashes. He felt like he'd been trampled by a high-stepping horse on parade.

Marsac touched his arm. "Aramis? You'd better lie down before you drip on something."

He obeyed, accepting Marsac's help as he twisted to lie on his stomach on the bed; even so, the motion pulled on his back fiercely, and he stifled another groan. As he slid his arms beneath his pillow and settled his head, Marsac's words caught up with him, and he asked, "Am I dripping?" So it really was that bad.

Marsac sat on the side of the bed, and Aramis felt a few light touches as he inspected the damage. "It's mostly welts and bruises, but there's a lot of clear stuff and couple of these are bleeding. He tied something into the tails, I didn't see what—a coin, or some shot."

"That's cheating," Aramis grumbled into his pillow.

"You're lucky it wasn't a nail, you fool." But Marsac's tone was gentle, and so was his hand where he brushed Aramis' hair to one side, away from the stripes on his upper back, and one where a tail had flown wild and caught the back of his neck. From behind Marsac, though the other door, Aramis saw one of the kitchen-boys appear with a large tankard and an armful of cloth. Marsac accepted the supplies and flipped the boy a small coin; setting most of the linen to one side, he braced the tankard between his knees and folded up a strip to begin cleaning Aramis' back.

"If that's wine," Aramis said hopefully, "can I at least drink some before you get blood in it?"

Marsac shook his head. "Not your day, my friend. Just vinegar."

Aramis' reply was choked off when he felt the bite of the warm water and vinegar mixture on his raw skin. He balled his hands into fists beneath his pillow and tried to relax his back and shoulders and take deep breaths - exactly what he told Marsac to do when their positions were reversed. He gained a new appreciation for the challenge with every fiery touch of the wet cloth.

"Some pair we make," Marsac said as he worked. "One last week, one this week. One who can't keep his mouth buttoned and one who can't keep his breeches- Hmm." The cloth stopped its assault for moment as Marsac leaned forward. "It was a button. Tied into the whip. I can just make out the crest here on your shoulder..."

"You're joking."

"I am not, ask someone else if you don't believe me." Marsac squeezed out his cloth and dipped it again in the wicked brew. "I hope it was worth it. Was there... anything in particular... that made you decide to miss muster?"

Aramis only answer was a contented hum.

"Oh?" But if Marsac was expecting more, he was disappointed. He looked up at the ceiling in mock supplication. "Why did I have to befriend the one man in the regiment who doesn't tell tales? And he the one most likely to have tales worth telling?"

Aramis smiled, half at Marsac's theatrics and half at the memory of the quartermaster's thoroughly lovely niece.

"God above, that smile is annoying." Marsac dropped his cloth in the tankard and reached for a dry strip. "There's a place on your ribs still bleeding," he explained, and Aramis managed not to jerk when he felt a firm pressure compound the stinging pain in his side. After a minute, Marsac mused out loud, returning to the subject that had occupied their conversations for the better part of a month: "Do you think Captain Treville has a taste for the cat?"

"I don't care if he does," Aramis said fervently. "I'll take a whipping every day if it means I get to be a Musketeer."

"Ah, they're bound to take you. The regiment's got 'musket' in the same, for God's sake."

Privately, Aramis dared hope that his sharp eye would indeed get him into the new, elite guard, but he was also trying to steel himself for rejection. The main problem was— "It's supposed to be for nobles."

"They always say that, but they're bound to need a few real soldiers to do the work."

"I'll be sure to tell that to your cousin the chevalier." Aramis tried to give Marsac an arch look, but it was difficult from from such a low angle, and with the right side of his face buried in a pillow. "It's obviously you they're bound to take."

"Why not both of us?" Marsac's tone was light, but Aramis could hear the longing underneath. Marsac busied himself looking under the bandage, then sat back. "There, you're not dripping anymore."

"Oh, good." Something occurred to Aramis. "You know... Treville can't possibly offer to beat noblemen the way Belloc does with us."

Marsac snorted. "I think Treville might offer to beat the king himself if he thought it was warranted."

"Once we're King's Musketeers you'll have to watch that kind of talk."

"Once we're King's Musketeers I'll order all my virtues to stand up and salute, and my faults to bugger off," Marsac said loftily, and Aramis chuckled—then cursed as Marsac dabbed at his side, cleaning away the last of the blood.

"Sorry, sorry, I should have warned you. I'm done now. What watch do you have tonight?"

"Second."

"I'm on first—I have to go soon. Do you want help getting dressed again?"

"No, I'll manage," Aramis said, suddenly sleepy. "Don't want a shirt on yet." His back barely hurt as long as he didn't move... or yawn...

Marsac stood. "Sleep well, then. Dream of buxom quartermasters' nieces."

But when Aramis dreamt, it was of gleaming muskets, and of matching fleur-de-lis pauldrons on his shoulder, and on Marsac's.


	4. Pre-Series: Les Inseperables

**"It's the best way with Porthos. We've learned from experience." - Athos, s01e03, "Commodities"**

The barn was not large, nor defensible, but it seemed empty; that would have to do. Sword out, clutching the collar of a half-conscious Aramis in the other hand, Athos kicked the door in and lunged into the dark, dusty shack. Porthos fired his second pistol in the thieves' direction and was inside before the smoke cleared, slamming the door and leaning against it in the absence of a bar or, thanks to Athos, a latch.

"I hate Gascony," he snarled, pressing one hand to the stitch in his side.

Athos took stock of their sanctuary: one door, no windows, hayloft. "Apparently Gascony returns the sentiment." He spotted a nearby pile of straw where he might safely and one-handedly deposit Aramis, but after the first step, Aramis roused and batted at Athos' shoulder and arm; for the trouble, he was not exactly dropped, but not exactly pillowed down, as Athos endeavored to keep his struggling friend clear of the blade in his other hand. Aramis groaned and sat where he landed, pressing his palms to his forehead. A dark bruise radiated from his left temple, where he'd been struck with a pommel

Athos sheathed his sword. "He won't make it as far as the horses."

Porthos nodded. "I'll double back around and bring them."

"I think I'd better go."

"Wh—" Porthos looked down, following Athos' gaze, and saw a spreading bloodstain under his hand. "Ah, hell," he said with feeling. "Now it hurts."

"What happened to Porthos?" Aramis wanted to know, looking up from between his hands.

"Same thing that happened to you, mate." Porthos wadded up the side of his shirt and held it more firmly over the cut. He had already decided that it was merely a cut and not a gash. "A good Gascony welcome. I say we give them a Musketeer farewell."

"I think we already have. Listen." Athos held up a hand for silence, and they heard nothing from outside.

"Be careful anyway," said Porthos. "It's not exactly been our day."

They clasped hands briefly, and Athos went.

Night was just beginning to rob the forest of its colors, and a chill hung in the air, promising frost. Slipping through the woods was child's play and, though Athos' nerves hummed with wariness, part of him relaxed at the familiar sounds and smells. The wet autumn assured his own silent passage, and he heard nothing amiss, smelled no smoke or unwashed highwayman, as he used the setting sun to make his way to the horses. A quarter of an hour, no more, and he held Drum and Cricket's leads while Darkness tore up the fallow fields with long, powerful strides, back to the mangy barn.

They hove a protesting Aramis into his saddle, where he promptly slumped unconscious from the sudden movement. Athos lashed him in place with his own spare sash and gave Porthos a leg up, which occasioned a blistering oath and a bloom of fresh blood on the white shirt. Then all were mounted and away, leaving behind their makeshift shelter and six splayed bodies cooling in the twilight.

oOo

"No," said Porthos.

"Fine," said Athos.

"Not fine," said Aramis, without opening his eyes. It was their third or fourth time through the argument and, although lying down in an inn was infinitely preferable to lurching about in the saddle, he was not inclined to continue chatting all night. He went on, "If that hasn't stopped bleeding yet, it's not going to. You know I'm right."

Porthos made a noncommittal noise. Athos, arms crossed, glared at him.

Carefully, Aramis reached up and turned the wet cloth on his forehead to the cooler side. "Porthos, I can feel the room spinning even with my eyes closed, and if I sit up I'm going to throw up again. Nobody wants that."

The problem was this: the three companions had a system. The system was, whenever Porthos got on the wrong side of a sharp object, he got blackout drunk and Athos put him in a headlock while Aramis sewed as fast as possible. The system worked tolerably well, but it did require two able-bodied Musketeers, and they were down to one. Although they had been plying Porthos with wine since arriving, it was still only half of a solution to the problem.

Porthos was somehow glowering and pouting at the same time. Athos was, fortunately, immune to both, and done fooling around. "Sit down," he ordered.

Porthos sat, facing backwards in the writing-desk chair, wineskin dangling from one hand.

Athos held his hands up in an exaggerated look-I'm-unarmed and approached Porthos, whose shirt had been sacrificed entirely to make the thick pad and wide strip of bandage wrapped around his chest, terminating in a twisted mass secured by the ramrod from one of his pistols. Athos untucked the thin metal rod and loosened it a few turns, enough to pull back the pad and see that, no, there was no clot or scab forming, just the same raw gap flexing in time with Porthos' breath and oozing blood. He unwound and removed the bandage and, turning to the desk, unrolled Aramis' suture kit.

Porthos was growling, a deep, sustained rumble. Maybe drunker wasn't necessarily better? Athos glanced at the supine Aramis, hoping he would spring into action and reinstate the usual system. No such luck. Athos picked up a threaded needle and, placing his other hand on Porthos' side above the wound, said, "Deep breath."

The growl grew louder.

Athos had barely touched the skin before he was on the floor with the wind knocked out of him and the needle through the webbing of his left hand. Porthos was on his feet, swearing, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists, and almost before he knew it, Athos pushed himself up and used the momentum of his whole body to put a right uppercut just under Porthos' stubborn chin.

The big man dropped like a boulder in a wishing well.

There was a long, still moment, and then Aramis said, "My god, it's genius." He had lifted his wet cloth and turned his head just enough to observe the commotion, and now he was smiling.

"What?" Athos pulled the needle from his hand with a grimace.

"That's it. I mean, that's it."

"Shall I punch you, too?" Athos offered, glaring.

"Don't you see?" Aramis asked. "No more headlocks, no more shouting. All you have to do is lay him out first."

Athos considered this with a frown. "He won't like it."

"You like the old way so much?"

"I suppose there are some things worth the idiocy of punching a man in the face." Athos' knuckles ached; normally he remembered to hit the soft parts with his hands and the bony parts with a weapon.

"Amen to that." Aramis replaced the cloth and settled back into the pillows with a sigh. "Better sew him up before he comes to."

 _Ah_ , Athos thought sourly, flexing bruised knuckles before bending to his work. _Friendship._


	5. Tag: s01e08, The Challenge

"After The Challenge"

Some of the Musketeers wanted to luxuriate in d'Artagnan's win, loudly, only yards from where the Red Guard were picking up LeBarge's body and arguing amongst themselves. Blood was high on both sides, and Aramis knew they could all be back on the dueling ground quick as a spark. He would have welcomed a bit more swordplay, personally, and it would be just the thing to cheer Porthos up after his conversation with the beautiful widow, but he supposed the Musketeers should try to retain the moral, as well as the martial, high ground. Plus it would be a shame if d'Artagnan's triumph were marred by anyone—well, any Musketeers—getting hurt.

Well, any more Musketeers. Aramis looked around and didn't see Treville anywhere... but he did see a man in black, with a large wooden box under his arm, leaving the blue and white tent in a hurry. And experience told him that whence cometh a rebuffed physician, there goeth a certain snarling Musketeer captain.

Aramis caught Athos's eye as the other musketeer chivvied the young hotheads along. He nodded toward the tent, knowing Athos would understand, then he took off his hat and ducked between the canvas flaps. Treville was inside, sure enough, sitting on the padded surgeon's bench. He was attended by the Bouchard cousins, who were, as of just now, the second-newest Musketeers; what with their having the same surname and no noms de guerre ready upon arrival in Paris, the regiment had quickly dubbed the fat one "Le Monde" and the short one "Lapin," which they mostly bore with good humor.

Le Monde was gently sliding Treville's doublet off his wounded arm. Treville looked up at Aramis and asked tightly, "What's all the noise out there?"

"Athos is clearing everyone out before the Red Guard get any ideas," Aramis said. He hung his hat on the armor stand and started removing his gloves as he asked, "Dislocated?"

"Feels like it," Treville agreed.

Aramis added his weapons belts and jacket to the armor stand, too; he preferred to go about physicking unencumbered. "Lapin, Le Monde, do you know how to put a shoulder back in?"

Le Monde, hanging Treville's doublet up with Aramis's, said, "I've done it once."

Lapin shook his head. "But maybe I shouldn't learn on the captain."

"Why not? I did," Aramis said, and grinned at their surprise. He came around the bench and adjusted the wide neck of Treville's shirt to reveal his upper chest and shoulder, which were badly deformed and an angry red that heralded painful bruising. Aramis frowned. Judging from the pit in the front of Treville's shoulder and the odd fullness behind it, the bone had come out of the socket and slipped backwards. Which would make the other unsettling protrusion his collarbone...

Treville looked at Aramis sidelong. "It may be something more than a dislocated shoulder," he confessed.

Aramis couldn't keep one eyebrow from twitching, but he worked to keep his tone mild. "Isn't there supposed to be a real physician at these things?"

"Don't pretend you didn't see him," Treville said darkly. "He's the Cardinal's man and he resents being ordered to serve 'the common soldiery.'"

"So you sent him away."

Treville glared. Time to drop the subject.

Aramis smiled brightly. "Not to worry, sir. If it's something I don't know how to set, we'll get Van Bremen," he said, naming a retired army surgeon Treville had been known to tolerate. He lightly touched the inner edge of the incipient bruise, which ran almost to the middle of Treville's chest. "Any of these ribs broken?"

"No, it's all in the shoulder."

Aramis trusted Treville on that count, so he put one hand on Treville's back and took his elbow with the other. Before Aramis could ask him to, Treville took a deep breath and relaxed the muscles in his arm and back as much as he could—the old soldier had a great deal of experience being looked over for broken bones. Aramis started to feel Treville's arm inch by inch, trying not to jostle him as he went. If anything was broken, it was probably that crooked collarbone, but he didn't want to find out he was wrong in the middle of pulling Treville's shoulder back into place.

"How about our d'Artagnan, eh?" asked Lapin, filling the silence.

"Finally commissioned!" Le Monde said with a grin. "He was brilliant out there today."

Lapin nodded. "He changed his style to suit LaBarge. Traded distance for strength."

Le Monde tossed a bandage roll in the air and caught it again. "He did, didn't he?" He added in an aside to Aramis and Treville, "We were saying the other day that d'Artagnan does tend to rely on his reach, at least in the training yard."

"I mean, it's not the worst thing to rely on, is it?" Lapin said. "If he gets my dagger away from me, I'm a dead man every time."

"Maybe his sparring partners back in Gascony were all your size?"

Lapin's response was a rude gesture, out of Treville's line of sight.

Aramis was glad to have the younger Musketeers with him. Their easy banter was meant to distract Treville, to bathe him in familiar topics and voices, as he might have done himself if Porthos were here. It was working: Treville's shoulder and arm stayed lax under Aramis's hands as the cousins chatted on.

Next, he walked his fingers out along the collarbone. Solid bone quickly gave way to the warm, boggy feeling of bad swelling, and while he didn't feel the telltale grating of a break, Aramis was inclined to think there was at least a crack somewhere under there. In any case, the bone sloped up much too steeply and the far end threatened to poke out through Treville's skin. The bone moved when he touched it, and he heard Treville let out a small, choked noise. "Sorry, captain. Collarbone's dislocated, too, and cracked," he reported, "but your arm's not broken, so we should be able to get the shoulder back in without any heroic measures."

"Good," Treville grunted, adjusting the way he was cradling his arm. "We've all had enough heroism for one day."

Le Monde fished inside his doublet and came out with a rather ornate palm-sized flask. He looked back and forth between Aramis and Treville. "Does this count as a heroic measure?" he asked.

"No, no, that's an excellent idea," Aramis said. He'd been debating offering Treville the crude spirits he kept for cleaning wounds, but in his experience, drinking the stuff caused as much pain as most injuries.

Le Monde uncapped the flask and handed it over. Treville tipped some into his mouth, trying not to move too much, and returned it with thanks.

"Good thing greedy-guts here always travels with most of a meal," Lapin said, elbowing his cousin. He looked around the tent. "Honestly, who leaves bandages but no wine?"

"Speaking of which," Aramis said, "go through that basket, would you? We'll need the longest ones you can find."

Lapin went to sort through the bandages, and Aramis ran his hand over the back of Treville's shoulder, trying to map the contours of the displaced bone. He was afraid he'd have to improvise a bit... _Out_ , he decided. If he pulled straight out, the head would clear the edge of the shoulder blade, and then he could push or rotate it forward into place.

"All right," he said, "shoulder first. Let's get your shirt off, too, captain, and get you lying down."

The cousins traded a look that was a good as bursting into laughter, which Aramis chose to ignore. The loose linen shirt was much more forgiving than the heavy doublet, and as they maneuvered it off, he resumed instructing the younger Musketeers. "Usually you see a shoulder dislocate to the front. That's whether you fall off a horse, run afoul of Porthos in a fight, or just get unlucky and do it with a good sneeze."

"A sneeze?" echoed Lapin, incredulous.

"Oh, yes." Smiling ruefully at the memory, Aramis passed one of the large bandages around Treville's chest. "But this is dislocated to the back," he went on, "so it will look a little different from what you've done before. Lapin, come around here. We're going to help him lie down, close to the edge, with his left shoulder angled off the bench. Ready?"

It took all three of them, and several reminders to Treville to relax and let them help, but soon he was positioned to Aramis's satisfaction, with Lapin supporting the bad shoulder from below and Le Monde standing on Treville's good side, holding the ends of the bandage that was looped around his chest. "I'll be pulling this way," Aramis explained, "so you have to pull the other way to keep him from falling." Aramis put a hand on Treville's forearm where it rested on his stomach. "Ready?"

Treville closed his eyes and nodded.

Aramis straightened Treville's arm gently, took a firm hold with one hand above and one hand below the elbow, and started to counter his arm out, slowly. When he liked the angle he looked up at Le Monde. "Match my force, but don't yank—lean. Like easing onto a trigger." He set his feet and leaned back, using his whole body weight to pull Treville's arm out, slowly, trying to ignore the obvious pain he was causing his patient.

Aramis kept up the steady pressure and worked on angling the upper arm outwards, too. He knew that tomorrow, Treville would have bruises where his fingers were. "Lapin, press forward, just a little," he directed, and added to Treville, "Breathe, captain. Don't hold your breath."

Aramis felt sweat rolling down his nose. He ducked his head to wipe it on his sleeve and kept leaning back, feeling the arm come towards him, seeming to lengthen. He felt a tiny thrill in his hands, a grating feeling; he prayed it was one bone slipping past another, and he added a little bit of inward rotation, twisting Treville's arm slowly as he pulled.

"People will tell you to put a shoulder back with one good tug," he said, a bit breathless. _Come on..._ "But that doesn't always work. So if I have a nice, dry tent and no enemy fire and all the time in the world—"

A sudden jolt reverberated through Treville's arm, along with an unmistakable popping noise—though it was almost drowned out by Treville's bellow. His right hand flew up to clutch his left shoulder, and his knees started to curl up to his chest. He cursed passionately and without pause as Aramis and Le Monde slowly let up their opposing forces.

"Captain?" Aramis said, carefully laying Treville's forearm across his stomach again.

"—pit of fire with the whores and devils—"

" _Captain._ "

Treville swallowed his next oath, opened his eyes, and looked balefully up at Aramis.

"Can you move your fingers?"

He grimaced, but his left hand made a loose fist, then relaxed.

"Good." Aramis wiped his forehead on his sleeve. "Just... rest for a minute, alright?"

"No, get on with it," Treville panted. "The sooner we're all back at the garrison, the better." Treville caught Le Monde's eye and held up his right hand. Le Monde recognized an unspoken order and helped pull Treville back up to sitting, though the captain couldn't quite hold in a long groan at the movement. Aramis gave Le Monde a reproachful look.

Lapin passed Aramis a roll of linen. "It's the longest one I found," he said. "Someone already spliced together a few to make it."

"Perfect. I'll need another long one, and a big square if there is one."

As Lapin went back into the basket, Aramis started to wind the bandage in a figure of eight: down over Treville's good collarbone, under the good armpit, across the back; down over the bad collarbone, gingerly under the bad armpit, across the back. Treville ground his teeth when Aramis first pulled the bandage tight over the dislocated collarbone, and seeing his face, Le Monde brought the flask back out. Still, Treville was dripping sweat by the time Aramis was done.

"Captain," said Le Monde hesitantly, "shall we scrounge you up a carriage? You can go with Aramis and we'll get the horses back to the garrison."

Treville shook his head. "I'd rather ride than have my teeth rattled out of my skull in a carriage."

And, Aramis knew, it was a point of pride. "Why don't they bring the horses around?" he suggested. "I can wrap up that shoulder, shouldn't take long, and we'll be on our way."

"Alright," Treville agreed. He looked from one cousin to the other. "Go on, then."

As they ducked out of the tent, he drank from the flask again and set it beside him on the bench. Aramis already had Treville's shirt in his hands, and carefully worked it up over his left arm, then dropped it over his head and helped Treville find the right sleeve. It was easier than before, now that the bones in his shoulder weren't all shifting around. Aramis caught up his left forearm in a wide bandage and tied the sling around his neck.

As he worked, he said, "You knew."

"The trials were real, but I saw LaBarge with the Guard yesterday." Treville's tone of voice declared the subject closed, but Aramis was not known for leaving well enough alone.

"If you were supposed to fight LaBarge," he wanted to know, "why did the herald just happen to have a new pauldron on hand?"

"If I won—if I lived—I was going to ask the King to give d'Artagnan his commission. He'd earned it twice over."

Of course. Of course Treville was thinking only of his men, all the time, from every angle. Aramis felt a rising sense of shame remembering the talk among the Musketeers after Treville's announcement. "We didn't trust you enough," he said quietly.

Treville's face was impossible to read. "And do you now?"

Aramis could only nod.

Treville nodded back. "I might not have trusted me, either," he allowed.

Aramis busied himself with another long bandage, binding Treville's arm firmly across his chest, and said only, "I think you should keep these on, maybe till morning. I've never seen a shoulder go backwards like that, and I can't say for sure whether it's more or less likely to slip out again."

"Let's assume it will slip out if I sneeze, at least for tonight." Treville nodded toward the armor stand, where Le Monde had hung his doublet. "That, too. I'm not riding around in my shirtsleeves like an errand boy."

Before obeying, Aramis double-checked that all the bandage-ends were tucked in, and he ran his fingers under the edges in a few places. "Is anything too tight?"

Treville's fingers flexed briefly where they emerged from the linen. "No, it's fine. And," he added when Aramis opened his mouth, "I will check again in a few hours."

Smiling, Aramis fetched Treville's doublet. He pulled the sleeve up Treville's right arm and draped it over his left shoulder, watching his face to see if the heavy leather pressed on his injuries, but Treville only tugged at the collar to settle it a little better. Aramis was seeing to his own coat, sash, and weapons belts when they heard hooves outside. Treville accepted Aramis's help getting down from the surgeon's bench, with a muttered "God's teeth."

Aramis handed Treville's weapons up to Le Monde, and Lapin held Treville's horse still as Aramis gave him a leg-up from the off side. Treville refrained from cursing in front of the younger Musketeers, but Aramis could tell the movement hurt, and he lingered for a moment. He needn't have bothered; Treville's seat was steady as ever as he took his reins from Lapin.

Aramis mounted, too, and as one the horses began walking home.

"Le Monde," Aramis said, "do you know who had the good leather sling last?"

"Uh..." Le Monde frowned. "Giraud, I think. But he hasn't needed it for months. I can ask him for it later."

Lapin tilted his head. "I always thought the communal sling was taking 'one for all' a bit far."

Aramis laughed at that; on his right, he heard Treville chuckle, too. "That thing has been going around since you two were catching frogs in Breton creeks," he explained. "It's become a cross between a joke and a good-luck charm."

Lapin rolled his eyes. "You know when you tease us about being young, it makes you sound old."

"Might as well," Aramis grumbled, "I'm pretty sure I aged ten years and sprouted a dozen gray hairs today."

"So you turned into me," Treville said gravely.

The cousins whooped at that, and at Aramis's face as he tried to recover his verbal footing.

Over the course of the ride from the palace grounds back to the garrison, Aramis kept an eye—well, both eyes; the horses knew the way home—on Treville. Broken shoulder and all, he sat his horse easily and seemed ready enough to smile and occasionally join in the talk. Aramis was all too familiar with the heady relief of a near escape, and hoped that it would sustain the captain all the way home and up to his rooms. _Although there's very little chance I'll convince him to lie down and rest at this hour. We're not Spanish, after all._

They weren't more than a quarter of an hour behind the others, and when they reached the garrison it was still buzzing with the excitement of the collective victory and the small bits of business that needed doing before the men could properly celebrate d'Artagnan's commission. Stable boys came to take their reins, and before anyone could fuss, Treville dismounted using just his right hand. The landing had to hurt, but he didn't show it as he greeted nearby men and accepted his weapons from Le Monde, and Aramis smiled to himself. The captain of the Musketeers was a force to be reckoned with, even in the face of the Cardinal's schemes and against his band of red-cloaked vipers.

Porthos appeared at Aramis's elbow. They greeted each other with a friendly thump, and Pothos said quietly, "Treville looks cheerful. Is he alright?"

"Ah, well, you know how it is, he's happy to be alive. That shoulder is a mess, though. It'll be a few weeks."

"Weeks?" Porthos scowled. "If LeBarge weren't already dead..."

"Speaking of which, where's the hero of the hour?" Aramis looked around, but their Gascon was nowhere to be seen.

"He wanted to tell Constance the good news. We let him go after he swore on his pauldron he'd meet us at the Swan."

Aramis chuckled. "We'll be sure to see him there."

"Five sou says Athos joins us."

Aramis weighed Athos's affection for d'Artagnan with his dislike of drinking, let alone celebrating, in large groups. "I believe I'll take that bet."

They were shaking hands just as Treville approached them. He raised an eyebrow. "I was going to tell you two to keep the peace tonight. Do I want to know what that was about?"

"We'll be on our best behavior," Aramis promised, laying his hand on his heart.

Treville, many years familiar with Aramis's definition of good behavior, was not impressed. "I mean it," he said. "Stay away from The Dancing Goat and wherever else the Red Guard drink these days. They'll be looking for Musketeers to thrash."

They both managed to answer, "Yes, captain" with passable sincerity. On impulse, Aramis added, "Come with us. One round. It's your victory, too."

But Treville was already shaking his head. "Captain's lot, paperwork awaits. I'll see you in the morning."

"I'll come up before muster," Aramis said, and Treville waved the weapons belt in his hand in acknowledgement as he made his way up the stairs. Now, almost to the sanctuary of the office, his mask was slipping a little, and he climbed slowly. Aramis watched him go, until he felt a nudge from Porthos.

"He's fine, you said so yourself." Porthos's voice was little more than a whisper.

"I know." Aramis made himself look away from Treville.

"What possessed you invite him out, anyway?" Porthos wondered, still _sotto voce_. "He never drinks with the regiment. Unlike Athos, who will definitely be joining us tonight."

Aramis didn't rise to the bait, still deep in his thoughts. "He shares danger with us all the time, but today he took it on _instead_ of us. He protected us, even though we're soldiers, too. The least we could do is buy him a drink." Above them, Treville's office door opened and closed, which Aramis took as a reminder to put away his worries and musings for the moment. He made himself resettle his hat and smile at Porthos, saying brightly, "Well! First toast to d'Artagnan, second to Treville, and, as long as we're on the theme of absent friends, the third will most certainly be to Athos."

"The third what?" Athos appeared from the direction of the kitchen. "If it's the third round, I won't be staying that long," he warned them. "One drink with you lot. _One_."

Porthos cackled and held out his hand to Aramis, who thought it was worth five sou to have their third Inseparable present, but dug into his belt pouch with exaggerated disgust for form's sake. They strolled together through the arch, and Aramis resisted throwing a last glance at Treville's office door. They had a new Musketeer and they hadn't lost any old ones in the process—there was plenty to celebrate.

And he'd be back first thing in the morning.


	6. Tag: s01e09, Knight Takes Queen

**A tag to s01e09, "Knight Takes Queen"**

Aramis stood in Treville's office with Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan. For nearly half an hour they'd been taking it in turns to detail the events of the past two days: the attack at Bourbon-les-eaux, the flight to the convent and the decision to split up, fighting off Gallagher's men until the ragtag relief force arrived. Saving the Queen. Aramis had largely stayed quiet, except when necessary, and was trying not to glance sideways at Athos, who, despite his habitual expression of disinterest, was practically vibrating with tension. Was he afraid that he or Aramis would inadvertently hint at the secret they now kept? Or was it something about the coin box that lay open on Treville's desk, displaying the little blue flower in its lid? The emblem of a dangerous woman, apparently, an ally of the Cardinal's, and Athos could hardly take his eyes off it.

Aramis was anxious to get away from Treville's shrewd gaze, away from Athos's turmoil and Porthos and d'Artagnan's curiosity; they knew something had happened at the convent. He hadn't been alone since it happened: they had ridden straight from the convent to the palace, waited there for the Queen to repair herself and the King to grant them an audience, and then returned to the garrison and followed Treville up to his office.

Finally, Treville leaned back in his chair, looking over the page of notes he'd taken as the Musketeers talked. "I think I have everything I'll need. If not, I know where to find you all. Don't worry about guard duty tonight or tomorrow, either—the lads who were out hunting with the king can take care of that." He put the paper down and looked at each of them in turn. "Fine work, all of you. I'll be putting you up for commendations for your services to France. You should be proud. I am." He nodded. "Dismissed. Get some rest."

Following Athos out of Treville's office, Aramis stopped himself from heaving an actual sigh of relief—which was just as well, because as he put his hand on the door, he heard from behind him, "Aramis. A moment, if you would."

Aramis froze. Athos turned back and gave him the briefest and most eloquent of glares, a look that said _Do not get me hanged,_ before continuing out the door with Porthos and D'Artagnan. Schooling his own expression, Aramis turned back to Treville and saw that he had put his notes down and was cradling his left arm, still in the sling, with his right. Of course. Nothing serious.

Nothing dangerous.

Aramis closed the door and turned around, taking off his gloves as he returned to stand before Treville. "I don't imagine the fighting was kind to that shoulder."

Treville shrugged—with the good side only. "It stayed in the socket."

"That's something." Aramis tucked his gloves in his belt. "Shall we get the cuirass off?"

Treville still wore the armor he had donned to fight, having had as little time to himself in the interim as anyone else. He stood, pulled the sling over his head and off his arm, and set it on the desk. With his right hand he started to work on the buckles at his left shoulder, and Aramis came around the desk and freed the other shoulder and the right side, so he could open the breast- and back-plates like a clamshell and allow Treville to step out. Aramis saw that he had added a small piece of quilted padding under the cuirass, to keep it from sitting directly on his broken collarbone; it looked like it has been improvised from a detached gambeson sleeve. Treville added the padding to the pile on his desk and started on the buttons of his coat.

Aramis hung the cuirass from its accustomed place on the iron screen, and when he turned back, Treville was pulling the coat off his bad arm. He draped it over the back of his chair and rubbed his left hand with his right.

"Does it hurt?" Aramis asked.

Treville shook his head. "Feels like it's full of ants. I think the bandage must have shifted, in the excitement."

"Let me see?"

When Aramis pushed the neck of Treville's shirt to the side, he saw the problem right away. He bent down to slip his smallest knife from his boot, then cut the end of the bandage free from where he had sewn it to itself three days ago. "The bandage didn't move," Aramis explained, picking threads out. "Your shoulder is swollen, so it's cutting in here, and under your arm." He tried to redistribute the new slack in the bandage by running his fingers underneath its layers, with only a little success: Treville's shirt was in the way, and the bandage ran in several figure-eights around both shoulders and across his back. Aramis gave up for the moment. "I'll redo it. And I think a long, hot soak wouldn't go amiss?"

Treville frowned down at the page of notes he'd taken. "I can't write this report from the bathhouse, Aramis."

"I suppose the steam would wreak havoc on the paper," Aramis said, mock-thoughtfully. "And the ink would run."

Treville pointedly ignored the jest. "Just... help me with the bandage."

Aramis returned the knife to his boot. Should he simply do as Treville asked, and gain his solitude sooner? As soon as the thought coalesced, his conscience rejected it; he owed Treville more than that. "At least come down to the kitchen," he counter-offered. "We'll put a hot compress on it and you can get right back to your reports." He could tell Treville was wavering, so he added, "No more crawling ants?"

Treville sighed. "Fine."

Leaving his doublet and the sling, Treville followed Aramis outside, down the stairs, and around to the kitchen, where they both paused in the doorway. Instead of the usual bustle, only a banked fire was there to greet them. The kitchen was Serge's domain, the old soldier making sure the garrison was fed each midday, but Serge had picked up his blunderbuss one more time to join the desperate rescue mission to the convent. The reward for his bravery? An Irish rebel's bullet. He was alive but unable to ride, and they had elected to speed the queen back to Paris and leave Serge recovering with the nuns. In his absence, the kitchen seemed larger and darker, even with the late afternoon sun pouring in the windows.

After a moment, Aramis and Treville moved inside. Aramis went to the hearth and held a hand up to the pot, to see if it had warmed at all over the embers. Looking around, he said, "It's strange, walking into a quiet kitchen."

"The nuns will take good care of him," Treville said, leaning against one of the long tables. "He's probably trying to get out of bed already."

"He may have met his match in Mother Superior." Aramis poked the fire, and from the pile stacked neatly next to the hearth, took two logs to balance on top. "She's an extraordinary woman, I'm sure she can make even Serge behave."

"A hard-nosed nun? She'll have to be careful, he might fall in love with her," Treville said dryly. He turned his attention to pulling his shirt out of his breeches, wincing as the motion jarred his shoulder, so he didn't see Aramis freeze.

 _Fall in love with her... fall in love with her..._ Memories rose swiftly and in a jumble: holding Isabelle as the light died in her eyes; holding Isabelle all those years ago, certain that they would fall asleep and wake like this, together, forever; the Queen's hair like silk under his fingers—

Between one breath and the next, Aramis pushed the memories away, down inside him again, just as he had swallowed his grief while still bent over Isabelle's body, and again with his impatience upstairs when Treville called him back. Aramis was naturally inclined to wear his heart on his sleeve, but he had also learned to master his emotions when he had to—when he remembered to. Treville was wrestling with his shirt and had probably, hopefully, not noticed Aramis' face in the moment of his lapse.

"Here," Aramis said, helping Treville pull the shirt over his head. With it out of the way, he could properly unwind the long bandage. Now sweat-and dirt-stained after the day's riding and fighting, it was there to brace the cracked and dislocated collarbone on the left while the sling took the weight off a viciously dislocated shoulder, both courtesy of the criminal LaBarge the previous week; Treville had been reasonable about resting his injuries, only to have the choice taken from him by the threat to the queen.

Aramis set the bandage aside, feeling the last trace of the intrusive memories fade away as he focused on Treville; he took his role as unofficial garrison surgeon seriously. A thick red indentation marked where the bandage had lain and grown tight, and around it, the flesh was swollen and warm to the touch. "This is... impressive," Aramis said, running a hand lightly over the worst of the swelling. When he'd last seen Treville's injuries, his chest and shoulder were red, just starting to purple, and now every color, from nearly black in places to yellow and green in others, was splashed across his skin. The middle of the collarbone, where Aramis thought it was cracked, was one of those nearly-black splotches; the top of the shoulder, where the collarbone met and formed its joint, was another. The shape of LaBarge's boot heel was a dark crescent on his upper chest.

"If you're just going to do paperwork tonight—" he said.

"I certainly hope so."

"—let's leave the long bandage off for now and see if the swelling goes down. I'll make a fresh one for the morning, so you can have it when you go to Court."

"Good. I always have to be ready for the Cardinal to ask me to bend over backward."

Half-smiling, Aramis turned away and checked on the pot over the fire. The water was hot now, almost uncomfortable to the touch—perfect—and Aramis was just reaching down a basket of bandages and jars from a high shelf when he heard Treville's voice behind him.

"Aramis," he said, "what else happened at the convent?"

Aramis slowly put the basket on the counter and didn't turn around. "Are you asking as my captain?" Aramis' voice was very quiet, but his heart was suddenly threatening to beat out of his chest. "For your report?"

"Should I?"

Aramis shook his head, still looking down at the basket.

"I don't see any paper or ink here," Treville said. "Even my uniform is upstairs. But..." he added after a long silence, "I am asking."

Before he answered, Aramis swung the pot off the fire. He took a bottle of rose water from the basket, uncorked it, and poured in a small measure; the kitchen seemed to fill with invisible blooms. He moved slowly, but his mind was racing: Treville was not above asking Aramis a question he already knew the answer to, just to see what he said. But how would Treville know? Athos had not said anything, and Treville had not been alone with the Queen that day, even if she would have breathed a word to anyone, which she wouldn't. Of course, that was not the only thing that had happened at the convent...

God help him. Was he about to do Isabelle a disservice? Telling their story as, not exactly a lie, but a diversion?

"When Gallagher's men tunneled into the basement," Aramis began. He folded a few bandages into a pad, dipped them in the hot water, wrung them so they weren't sopping. "One of the nuns was there. She raised the alarm, but they killed her." Treville knew this part already, it had been included in their report, but Aramis had let Athos say the words before. Now, saying them was easier than he had thought it would be... Aramis lay the hot compress just where Treville's neck and shoulder met, where he could see the muscles corded with tension.

Aramis readied another compress. "The nun, I knew her. From before. We were..." How to say it? Knowing Treville would read between the lines, he settled on, "We were young together. I hadn't seen her since." His voice sounded husky—a memory, trying to crawl into his mouth—he cleared his throat, and arranged the second compress next to the first. Treville regarded him impassively, waiting for the rest.

Aramis took a moment, making a third compress to finish covering Treville's shoulder in the warm cloths. He placed it precisely, then stepped back so he could cross his arms and lean against the opposite wall. Now he knew why it hadn't been so hard to say that Isabelle was dead; that was a fact, true and immutable, and as a soldier he had reported friends' deaths before. But this... He met Treville's eyes, which held him with a softer gaze now than earlier, and said, "I knew when they opened the gate for us that we came bringing violence, maybe even death, to a place that should be peaceful. But we had protect the queen. I would take any risk for that, and I would ask it of others, too." He pushed away from the wall and ran his hands through his hair. "But Isabelle might still be at home, married, with a family, if we hadn't... If I hadn't... And she would still be alive if I hadn't come into her life again." He felt warm prickles starting in his eyes and nose.

Treville was nodding—more, it seemed, to himself than to Aramis. Then he said, "It was Gallagher."

This was not what Aramis expected to hear. "What?"

"Gallagher and his men killed her."

"I know—"

Treville held up a hand. "No, you don't. You're blaming yourself. You said you brought violence to the convent, but you brought the Queen of France to a sanctuary, and violence followed you there. Would you ever assassinate a monarch?"

The question was so sudden and so flatly ridiculous that Aramis assumed it was rhetorical, but Treville actually seemed to want an answer. "No," Aramis said finally.

"Would you ever take money to kill a woman?"

"No!"

"Gallagher and his men chose to do both. They violated the sanctity of a convent, and they killed a nun, a woman who was no threat to them. Now God will judge them — and you will leave off judging yourself for their actions." That was clearly an order, but Aramis wasn't about to assent. He bore some blame in Isabelle's death, he knew it. Not all of it. But not nothing.

Treville filled the silence with a seeming non-sequitur: "I'll write the Mother Superior tonight and send some money, then I'll have you and the others fetch Serge back when he's well enough to travel."

Aramis found he could speak again, on this topic, at least. "Are you sending four of us so we can take turns listening to him recount the battle?"

"Yes, I think it will take at least that many to properly divide that duty."

They shared, if not a smile, at least a smiling glance, knowing Serge's tendency to grow stories with each telling.

Aramis felt the cloths on Treville's shoulder and found that they had cooled. He took them off and returned them, for the moment, to the pot, then fetched over a dry cloth and a jar of bruise balm. He wondered if Treville had agreed to come down here just to have this conversation somewhere he knew Aramis would have plenty to do with his hands, ways to bleed off nervous energy, reasons not to look him in the eye. He dried Treville's shoulder, which was still radiating heat from the compresses and seemed less whipcord-tense, then opened the jar and started spreading a thin layer of salve over the rainbow of bruises. It added a familiar scent to the air, herbs and sweet beeswax, mingling with the smell of roses.

"And while you're at the convent," Treville added, in a low voice, "visit her. Talk to her. Tell her the things you didn't get to say."

"Will it help?"

"A little bit."

Aramis added that solemn tone to his small store of personal information about Treville. He recorked the jar and picked up Treville's discarded shirt, but the captain took it from him, shaking his head.

"I've been looking forward to a fresh shirt all afternoon."

"I'll come up—"

"I can manage. I'm getting used to dressing one arm at a time." Treville tilted his head, eliciting a few loud popping sounds from his neck, then cautiously—and minutely—rolled his shoulder. "Thank you," he said, opening and closing his left hand, evidently pleased at what he found. "No more ants."

"Good." Aramis started packing things back into the basket, except for what dry bandages remained. Those would come home with him, to be sewn end-to-end until they were long enough to replace the previous version; then Treville would have one to wash and one to wear as long as the injury called for it.

Treville was leaving, but Aramis looked up when he turned back in the doorway. "I know it seems that violence follows us," Treville said. "And, in some ways, it does... but that's only because we swore to protect something precious enough to warrant it." He held Aramis's gaze for a moment, to make sure his words had landed, and then was gone.

 _Something precious_... Aramis ran a strip of linen through his fingers, letting himself remember the feel of of that long, golden hair and the thrill of her name on his tongue. _Ana,_ he'd dared to whisper in her ear, and she had laughed and pulled him closer _._ But even here, alone, he would not repeat it. He would probably not repeat the things he had told Treville about Isabelle, either: twin secrets, birthed on the same day, one too sad to dwell on and one too bright and dangerous to share.

He folded the bandages and tucked them inside his tunic, and it occurred to him that, although for years he had been bragging that his needlework was "fine enough for the Queen's chemise," he had a new and intimate appreciation for what that might mean...

He smiled—that, at least, he could do safely.


	7. Tag: s02e06, Through A Glass Darkly

"Through A Glass... Backwards"

There was a tentative knock at the common room door, and Aramis and Porthos traded a confused glance. Who would knock...? Aramis shrugged, and Porthos called out, "Come in!"

The door opened, and Doctor Lemay leaned into the room. "Ah," he said. "Aramis. Your captain said I might find you here." He came in the rest of the way and closed the door behind him with a gentle click, explaining, "Her Majesty sent me to attend to you. She said you were thrown from a window during the... the events today?"

"I was indeed," Aramis said, "but I landed on a well-placed awning."

"Thank God!" Lemay said fervently. He looked at Aramis as if he didn't quite believe he was in one piece. "And you are... unhurt?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that," Porthos interjected.

"Just scrapes and bruises," Aramis said firmly. "Porthos, on the other hand," he added with a mischievous grin, "let the Comte de Rochefort dislocate his shoulder."

Lemay turned his surprise on Porthos.

"We were chained together," Porthos explained, "and I had to let him reach for a weapon. To be fair, he also put it back in for me." He slipped a hand inside his doublet to rub the offending joint. "Feels alright now. Good thing, too, I've been helping this one pick glass out of his hair for the better part of an hour."

Aramis waved a hand dismissively. "I'm sure we got it all. Sticking my head under the pump was a good idea."

"Just to be clear," Lemay said slowly, "no one requires a physician?"

There was a long pause. But as much fun as it was to make Lemay look back and forth like he was watching a tennis match, there was something Porthos didn't want to let go. "Seriously, Aramis," he muttered.

"It's fine."

"Yeah, well, you didn't see it."

"See what?" Lemay broke in.

Aramis sighed and gave up. "The back of my head," he said, gesturing.

Lemay, looking relieved to have something to do, moved to stand behind Aramis' chair. "From the glass?" he asked.

Aramis nodded, then stilled when he felt Lemay's hands searching lightly through his hair. He took the opportunity to ask, "Is the Queen well? And the Dauphin?"

"There were no other injuries," Lemay reported. "The Royal Family were all resting comfortably when I left the palace."

Aramis realized that he had not asked about the King, or Marguerite. He made a face when he felt something press against his head.

The pressure went away, and Lemay said, "I'm afraid this isn't all water, Aramis."

"Still?"

Lemay showed Aramis the bloody imprint on his handkerchief, a handsbreadth long.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Aramis muttered, the long day pulling a rare blasphemy from him.

"Needlework?" Porthos wanted to know, a little too eagerly, earning a glare from Aramis.

Lemay wiped his hands on a clean corner of the handkerchief. "Not necessarily." He bent a calculating look on the back of Aramis's head. "Did you clean this?"

Porthos picked up a small, square-shouldered glass bottle from the table and waggled it. "Aqua vita. Carries it with him everywhere."

"I like to be prepared," Aramis said, resisting the urge to turn and look at Lemay as he spoke. The doctor was picking through his hair again and probably would not appreciate the movement.

"I commend your foresight," Lemay said. "You have need of it frequently, I imagine, in your line of work?"

"Me, no," Aramis said. "Porthos, on the other hand -"

Porthos scoffed.

Aramis started counting on his fingers: "Crossbow, axe, knife, another knife, the Duke of Burgundy's wolfhound puppy - Ow!" A tug at his hair made the cut on his scalp burn.

"Apologies," came Lemay's voice from behind him.

Aramis frowned, paying more attention to the feeling of his hair being pulled this way and that. "Wait," he said, "are you... braiding my hair?"

"I am," Lemay said. It sounded like he was smiling. "Scalp wounds tend to gape. I wanted to pull these edges together a bit, to encourage it to stop bleeding, but it's not bad enough to make you sit for the needlework. Small braids, with hair from either side, should do just as well. In theory."

"Where did you learn to do that?" Aramis wanted to know.

"I have four sisters," Lemay said. "However, I confess the practical applications didn't occur to me until moments ago."

"My question is," Porthos said, looking at Aramis with a grin, "why do you know what it feels like to have your hair braided?"

"Ah, well, I was popular with local ladies from a young age," Aramis said, putting on a nostalgic air.

"As their plaything?"

Lemay spoke before Aramis could retort. "As I recall," he said, "very small braids are difficult to get out. I think these will stay in overnight, especially since your hair is wet and the braids will settle as they dry. Or so the girls always told me." Lemay finished, and stepped around to where Aramis could see him. "If it breaks open and bleeds again, don't hesitate to send for me, but I think it will close now."

"Thank you," Aramis said, gingerly running his fingers over the back of his head.

"Don't touch it, please. Are you sure the rest is not serious?" Lemay asked. He was looking at Aramis's hands, every knuckle bloody from his fall and the subsequent climbing and fighting - but it was true that technically they were only scraped and bruised, to which Aramis had already confessed.

Porthos said, "I'll vouch for him."

"Very good. Then may I report your relative good health to the Queen?"

"Yes, of course," Aramis said a little too quickly. "And thank her for thinking of me, please," he added. "I'm... very honored."

Lemay bowed to them both, and slipped out of the room as quietly as he had come in.

Porthos waited a moment, until Lemay was reasonably halfway across the courtyard, and said, "I like him."

"Me, too," Aramis agreed, reaching for his neglected wine cup. He raised it. "To Doctor Lemay's sisters."

Porthos laughed, and they drank, and if Aramis felt his heart grow warm remembering who had sent the young doctor, he could always blame the wine.

* * *

 _ **Notes:** "Hair apposition technique" is a real method for closing scalp lacerations; the modern version uses a dab of surgical glue to secure the twisted hair, and is actually superior to sutures in many cases. This story is also inspired by and dedicated to my best friend, who used to put teeny tiny braids in my hair during sophomore World History._


	8. Interlude & Pre-series

~~~~1631~~~~

Just as the long summer day began to darken, the men gave up their pursuit and began to set up camp, in an admittedly pleasant and convenient little clearing. Crouching in the shelter of a fallen log not a bowshot away, Aramis and d'Artagnan suspected a ruse, designed to flush them out—but the camp continued to go up, and they had to conclude that they were, in fact, free to slip away into the night.

Which was most distinctly _not_ the plan. The plan was to lure the men farther away from where the rest of the regiment were meeting the Bishop of Vannes, but there had been delays, and evidently the two Musketeers were not a tempting enough morsel. Aramis was trying not to take it personally.

D'Artagnan leaned so close to Aramis's ear his breath tickled. "Rejoin the others, or shelter here and see if they'll take up the chase in the morning?" He turned his head so that Aramis could whisper his answer just as closely.

"Stay." Aramis knew the answer was unusually short, even under present conditions, and rather breathless, and resigned himself to d'Artagnan's inevitable next question.

"How's the arm?"

Ever since the second scuffle with their pursuers-cum-quarry, when they had exchanged a few shots across a lightly-wooded section of the road, Aramis had kept his right arm tucked against his body; there had not been a good time or place to stop until the other men did.

When Aramis didn't answer right away, d'Artagnan turned to look at him, and Aramis said reluctantly, "It's... not my arm."

"Wh—" Aramis watched d'Artagnan work it out. His arm. Carried close to his body. Across his stomach. "Aramis. No."

"It's not bad."

"Not bad?" d'Artagnan repeated in a furious whisper. He took Aramis firmly by the upper arms and said, "Sit."

Aramis held onto d'Artagnan's wrist as he accepted help moving from kneeling to sitting, with his back propped up against the log.

D'Artagnan kept up a whispered diatribe: "What is Porthos going to do to you when he finds out you ignored getting gut-shot? What's he going to do to me for letting you?" Once Aramis was settled, d'Artagnan yanked off his gloves and shoved them in the back of his belt. "And Athos is going to drag us both to Hell and back. Twice. He'll never let you out of his sight again, and I'll be cleaning muskets for the _rest of my life_."

Aramis drew his hand out of his jacket. His arm and shoulder protested the motion, after a couple of hours clamped tightly in one position, but he ignored that twinge and instead tried to see how much blood was on his hand and shirt-cuff. His night vision wasn't quite was it used to be, but there didn't seem to be much. He hadn't felt a rush of blood when he moved his hand, either. Good signs—and there was one more thing he knew that d'Artagnan didn't.

"I can feel it," he explained. "The ball. It's not deep. Might be bloody when we take it out, but it's not dangerous, not really."

D'Artagnan paused long enough that he might be counting to ten the way Athos had recommended. "Let's see it, then." He reached for the buckle of Aramis's weapons belt, but Aramis stopped him.

"I'll do it," he said. "Hurts less."

D'Artagnan was definitely counting to ten now.

Before he could think about it too much, Aramis gritted his teeth and pulled on his belt, and he felt it slip free just as the forest floor began to slide beneath him. He didn't think he passed out, but suddenly his head was resting on the log behind him and he had the vague sense though not the actual memory of having been called an idiot.

D'Artagnan went to work unwinding the sash from around Aramis' waist, moving quickly but also managing not to jar Aramis too much as he went. Aramis concentrated on taking slow, even breaths as d'Artagnan tucked a handkerchief inside his coat and then retied the sash higher, over the wound, and tight. He lost another moment or two, then felt d'Artagnan's hand warm on the back of his neck.

"Aramis?"

"I'm alright," he breathed. "I'm alright."

A worried silence.

Aramis licked his lips and tried to gather his thoughts. "The ball is like a cork in a bottle, do you see? Stops it from bleeding. Safer in than out, for the moment."

D'Artagnan took his hand from Aramis's neck and put it to the ties on his doublet. Aramis shook his head—the last thing d'Artagnan needed was to be a flash of white linen in the dark forest. D'Artagnan sighed and settled next to him, and a line of warmth slowly spread from shoulder to knee where they touched.

"The second they break camp, I'm going for help," d'Artagnan muttered. It sounded halfway between a promise and a threat.

Aramis rested his head on the fallen log, closed his eyes, and dreamed.

~~~~1621~~~~

Just as the long summer day began to darken, the Musketeer regiment was overwhelmed, split, and pinned down by a wave of Huguenots mixed with English allies. About a dozen Musketeers, the vanguard of the vanguard, slipped through the Huguenots' tightening line and sped south like so many dark arrows. Cut off from their fellows by three or four times as many soldiers, they were not running away, but fetching help: there was regular infantry, and even cavalry, agonizingly close, but it would be full dark before the free Musketeers reached them to sound the alarm. Help would come, that was certain—but not till morning.

In the mean time, both forces settled into a watchful wait. The nearly-full moon rose and hung low and white in the sky, casting its half-light over a rippling terrain dotted with dark copses. The Musketeers had the high ground, thanks to Treville's quick thinking, and it was all that kept them safe. Neither side would be lighting fires or shifting position tonight.

To Aramis, who lay on his belly on the top of the rise on sentry duty, the moonlight was good as dawn or dusk. He kept a merciless reckoning of every movement he saw, and when Marsac came to take his place, he pointed them out one by one.

"I don't know if that's a larger group or a sentry post," he finished, speaking quietly. "I saw men of different sizes, but not at the same time. They might have just changed the guard."

"Depends on when," Marsac said, also quiet. "Their watches are probably the same length as—"

He stopped when Aramis held up a hand for silence.

"There," Aramis whispered, quivering like a hound with a scent. "There, look, it's definitely another man. I think they have cover of some kind down there, maybe a fallen log?"

"I don't see anything."

Aramis leaned on his weight on one elbow so he could point, and Marsac came up on his knees for a better look. He followed the line of Aramis's leather-clad arm and hand, barely visible in the darkness, but couldn't make out more than a slightly different shade of blackness in the distance.

"Still nothing," he said.

Aramis made to rise to his knees, as well, but just as he moved, a spark flared in the shadowy copse and a _crack!_ split the night. He dropped reflexively to the ground and stayed there, listening for the sound of movement or reloading. Behind and below them, he heard Treville order the rest of the men not to return fire. And then, from his left, came a thready gasp.

"Marsac?" He turned his head so his other cheek was in the dirt and he could see Marsac, lying in much the same position, his face contorted in a grimace. "Don't tell me that bastard got you."

"I don't—ah—I don't think it's bad. Graze, maybe."

Aramis slid closer. "Where are you hit?"

"Left side."

"I'll get help." But Aramis didn't move; he couldn't quite bring himself to leave his friend there alone, exposed.

"There's nothing wrong with my legs," Marsac pointed out as Aramis hesitated. "Help me up. I can make it back to camp." He rolled onto his back, stifling a groan.

"Give me your hand," Aramis whispered. Both of Marsac's arms were locked around his body, clutching his wounded side. Aramis wormed a hand into one of Marsac's, and slowly, Marsac let his arm relax until Aramis could change their grip to wrist-on-wrist.

"Ready?"

Marsac nodded.

Aramis pushed himself up off the ground, pulling Marsac with him and settling that arm across his shoulders in one smooth movement. Marsac made a strangled noise, but they were stumbling down the rise, and supported by Aramis he could at least make his feet follow one after the other. It wasn't long before they reached the main body of the Musketeer encampment, and Aramis kept his hold on Marsac as they both sank to their knees.

Aramis heard a flurry of quiet voices above their heads—"What happened?" "Get Treville." "Here, my bedroll is right here."—but he stayed focused on Marsac, who looked deathly pale in the moonlight. Marsac dragged his arm from Aramis's shoulders and, before Aramis could stop him, started to undo his weapons belt with one hand. Pulling it tighter to free the buckle made him gasp and sag to one side, and he might have tipped over except that Aramis still held him up.

"Let us do that, you idiot," Aramis said.

Marsac shook his head against Aramis's shoulder as his weapons belt fell to the ground. "Hurts less... do it myself."

"If you say so." Aramis nudged the belt and its various accouterments to the side, and someone laid out the promised bedroll. "Come on, lie down." With an arm around Marsac's shoulders, Aramis helped him lie back slowly, and as soon as he was settled, started unbuttoning his doublet. There was a hole in it, a darker patch against the dark leather, just to the side of the buttons. Too close to the center. Not good. _Please let it be a graze_ , he prayed. _I won't even make fun of him._ _Please let it be a graze._

Aramis heard Treville approaching, telling their replacement sentries to get up to the rise and _stay down,_ then he came and knelt on Marsac's other side. "That bloody shot actually hit him?" he whispered furiously.

"Afraid so," Marsac mumbled. Treville took his hand, and he went on, "Sorry, captain. I was stupid, I showed myself..."

Treville shook his head. "Shh. It's alright, Marsac. You'll find I try not to yell at my men while they're still bleeding."

Aramis, now pulling Marsac's shirt out of his breeches, couldn't help making a skeptical noise.

"I said I _try_ ," Treville reminded him, bristling slightly. "I'm not a saint."

Marsac's blood was a black splotch in the moonlight, which suddenly turned crimson as Vernier leaned over them with a lantern. It was mostly shuttered, but one half-open door threw a small square of light.

"I know you said no fires..." he began, but stopped when Treville only waved him closer.

"Aramis," Treville said, "is there an exit wound?"

Aramis's stomach dropped, and he shook his head as he was forced to admit, "I didn't look, I'm sorry."

Treville didn't say anything, just ran a hand under Marsac's back as best he could, leaning across him to do it on the other side, as well, and his hands came away clean. Marsac groaned at being jostled. "Still in there," Treville said, to himself more than anything. He used the hem of Marsac's shirt to wipe away some of the blood, and Marsac pushed at him weakly.

"No, no," Aramis said, catching Marsac's wrist. "It's the captain, he's trying to help." Marsac didn't reply, or even seem to hear him.

Treville shifted and straddled Marsac's legs, pinning them tightly between his knees. "Hold him down, " Treville said. Aramis knew what this meant: he crossed Marsac's arms on his chest and leaned on his forearms, hushing Marsac when he protested at the movement. Now he and Treville held Marsac down quite effectively. It was a good thing, too: when Treville pressed along Marsac's side, feeling for the ball, fresh blood trickled from the wound and Aramis had to use his whole weight to keep Marsac's shoulders on the ground as he twisted. Treville only hitched one knee in even tighter, intent on what he was feeling. Aramis dropped his head to his chest and prayed.

"Ah," said Treville. "There it is." Aramis opened his eyes and saw that his questing fingers had come to rest several inches from the entry wound.

"I can feel it," Marsac whispered. "Get it out, please get it out."

"Can we, captain?" Aramis wanted to know.

"No."

"Please, it's cold—" Marsac looked up at Aramis with wide, frightened eyes.

"Captain—"

"No."

"But—"

"Aramis."

Aramis had not been under Treville's command for long, but he knew finality when he heard it. He looked down so Treville wouldn't see his mutinous expression, and doing so, he saw Marsac's face, lined with pain, eyes screwed shut now. Aramis forgot about his anger. He let go one of Marsac's arms and stroked his hair. "Hey," he said. "It's alright, it's not bad. Let's trust the captain on this." He glanced up and saw Treville accept a handful of linen from Vernier, looking like a mix of proper bandages and sacrificed shirt-tails. "Marsac? Look at me."

Marsac's eyes rolled open and met Aramis'.

"I've got you."

Aramis could barely hear the reply: "I know." Marsac's eyes drifted closed again.

They managed to pass a wide bandage under Marsac's lower back without having to sit him up, and Aramis tied it tightly across a pad of shirt-tails placed over the entry wound. The regiment piled Marsac with so many blankets he looked like he was in a woolly nest, and when he finally slept, Treville gestured to Aramis to come walk with him. Aramis stood reluctantly, but there were others sitting with Marsac, and he found he could use a stretch. He also thought he knew what Treville wanted to talk about; tonight had not been his first brush with insubordination.

When they were halfway down the line, after reassuring a few other men that Marsac was not too badly wounded and resting, Treville finally spoke. "Did you see the shot go off?"

"Uh." Aramis scrambled to catch up to the unexpected question. "Yes, I was looking right at it."

"If I were a betting man, I would bet you only saw a spark, not slow match."

"How did you..." Aramis put himself back in the moment, saw the sudden spark go off, and heard once more the timbre of the shot—too light for a musket. "The sound. It was a pistol."

"What would I say to any Musketeer who fired a pistol at this distance?"

Aramis knew very well, and he quoted from memory, "'Save your shot, or by God, you'll be holding targets on the practice range until Easter.'"

Treville made an amused noise at hearing his own words repeated back to him. "When there's not enough power behind a ball—one fired uphill, or from too far away—"

"Or both."

"—or both," Treville agreed, "sometimes instead of going straight through a man, it skates along these muscles." He touched his own side, just where he'd found the ball in Marsac. "Not often, but I've seen it happen."

"That's why you thought you'd feel it."

Treville nodded.

"He wanted it out."

"Of course he did."

"It will get infected if you leave it in?" Aramis said hesitantly. He still wasn't sure how far he could push Treville.

"We won't do him any favors removing it ourselves, in the dark. The ball is like a cork in a bottle—a bottle we're not going to open." He looked at Aramis until he got a nod of assent, then went on. "He'll be happier to have it done tomorrow by a surgeon in a well-lit tent, after the cavalry come dig us out. For now, we know it won't kill him to put him on a horse in the morning. Aramis?"

"Yes?"

"Aramis?"

~~~~1631~~~

"Aramis?"

It was the same voice—that's why he didn't realize he was awake at first. The voice had followed him out of his dream...

"Aramis?"

Something was tapping his face. "Go away," he said, but it sounded more like "nnnph."

The tapping was replaced with the touch of cool metal on his lower lip, and the pleasant burn of brandy. For that, Aramis opened his eyes. He found Athos kneeling in front of him, capping a flask, and Treville on his other side. He blinked a few times, and Porthos and d'Artagnan came into focus, standing behind Treville and looking worried.

"Welcome back," Treville said.

"Didn't go anywhere," Aramis said thickly. But hadn't he? A makeshift camp on a dark, lonely rise? And why were people always hitting him about the face? He swatted at his attacker without opening his eyes—when had he closed them again?—but he regretted the movement when pain flared in his stomach, which made him double over, which hurt even more. Hands braced him on both sides.

"Easy, easy," came Treville's voice in his ear. "And I'll stop hitting you if you stay awake."

Aramis allowed himself a small groan as Treville and Athos helped him lean back against the fallen log again.

"I'm not going to yell at you," Treville said. "At least, not yet."

"We'll all take turns later," Athos promised. "D'Artagnan said you think the ball is still in there?"

Aramis nodded without lifting his head from the log. "I felt it. Not deep. Porthos can get it with a knife. Barely even bleeding. It's like..." he trailed off, blinking.

D'Artagnan's voice came from over Treville's shoulder: "Like a cork in a bottle?"

"That's the one."

Treville was looking at Aramis with an odd expression, like pity or pain. He touched the sash tied high around Aramis's waist. "Bandages are dry, at least," he said. "Let's get him back to camp."

"My horse will carry double," Athos said.

"I can ride," Aramis protested.

There was a derisive snort from up in Porthos's direction, and Athos informed him, "No, you can't. We didn't bring you a horse."

Aramis muttered something impugning his friends' mathematical acumen, the end of which was lost in a gasp as they counted to three and levered him to his feet. There were hands on his arms, on his back, holding him up, voices telling him to just breathe, as he rested his head on the nearest shoulder—d'Artagnan's, judging by the height. After a moment he looked up.

Aramis blinked. D'Artagnan's eyes weren't blue... that was someone from his dream, the dream he couldn't quite remember, or maybe he was thinking of Athos. He blinked again, and d'Artagnan's face resolved, still looking intently at him.

"Hey. We've got you," d'Artagnan said with a smile, though his eyes were worried.

Aramis lowered his spinning head again, closed his eyes, and nodded against D'Artagnan's shoulder. "I know."

* * *

 ** _Notes:_** _This fic grew out of two things: (1) The fact that in the series, the pistols are all flintlocks and the muskets are still matchlocks, which appears to be historically accurate—what a deep research hole that was! And (2), an anatomy professor told me years ago that the abdominal transversalis fascia has been known to turn aside relatively slow-moving bullets or bullet fragments. I managed to track down one reference—in the Jan 4, 1913 edition of The Lancet, courtesy of Dr. J.F. Baldwin—so I considered it fair game. :-)_


	9. Interlude & Pre-series 2

**A follow-up to Chapter 8. This one's for Deana** **—** **she's given me so many hours of happy reading, how could I tease her by leaving Aramis the way I did? Also, there is an Easter egg in this story! DM me with it and I'll write an h/c ficlet to a prompt of your choice. :-D**

~~~~1631~~~~

Aramis was feeling better. The ride to the Musketeer camp had not been pleasant; it wasn't far from the wood where he and d'Artagnan had spent the previous night, but a horse's walk was perfectly designed to pull on his musket wound with each step, so he had wrapped his good arm around Athos, laid his head on his friend's back, and tried not to make pathetic noises. Every now and then he'd felt Porthos or d'Artagnan brush his knee with theirs, they were riding so close on either side of him.

He didn't even want to think about dismounting.

Actually, he didn't really remember dismounting, which he suspected was for the best.

But now he had been wrapped in blankets, propped up near the fire against a couple of saddles, and plied with watered wine and leftover porridge until Porthos judged him to have regained a little color. The lead ball embedded in his side was a constant, hot ache, but not too bad if he didn't move, and Aramis was torn between impatience to get it out and the relief he felt just to be resting quietly, warm and clear-headed and safe.

Porthos was sitting tailor-style nearby, putting a razor's edge on the small, curved knife from Aramis' roll of surgeon's tools.

"Leave me some steel on it, please," Aramis teased.

"What, this?" Porthos held up the narrow blade and waggled it between thumb and forefinger. "Nah, I was going to keep this as a fillet knife. Figured I'd have a go at you with the chisel."

"Ha, ha."

Porthos tested the edge with his thumb. "We could probably commandeer a tent if we wanted," he said.

Aramis looked around, considering. The nights were pleasant, so the Musketeers had slept in their bedrolls and the only tents that were up belonged to the Bishop and his small retinue. They had their own fire, where a servant knelt making breakfast, and Aramis could see the Bishop sitting on a camp stool in front of his tent, talking amiably with Athos and Treville.

"Out here is fine," he said. "It'll be quick enough. And the light's better." Aramis began to shed his blankets, slowly.

When his friends first guided him towards the fire, they had leaned him up against Porthos to unwind the sash-bandage and remove his long coat so they could make sure Aramis wasn't actively bleeding at the moment. Aramis hadn't gotten a good look at the bloodstain then, but now he made a face at it. The stain wasn't large, but it was dark and crusted, and he knew no laundress in the world could save the shirt.

Porthos, following both his glance and his train of thought, said, "The price we pay for the life we lead, eh?"

"Indeed." Aramis rubbed the bloody spot between his fingers; it crunched. "Farewell, brave garment. "

"From what I understand," Porthos said, returning his whetstone to a belt pouch, "even if we turn it into bandages, it'll be resurrected as a shirt on Judgement Day."

"Unless it's resurrected as a field of flax," Aramis pointed out.

"We should ask the Bishop." Porthos tucked the knife into its loop in the leather kit, next to the chisel.

"Oh, definitely," Aramis agreed. "I'm sure he loves to entertain a bit of heresy over breakfast." He pulled his braces from his shoulders with a groan and undid the top buttons of his breeches so Porthos could help him out of the much-abused shirt. Looking down, Aramis saw a familiar red and ragged-looking hole, smeared with a little fresh blood and flecked with dry, and around his right side—

Porthos whistled. "That is the King, Queen, and Cardinal of bruises, my friend."

—a swollen purple splotch spread from hip to ribs. Tentatively, Aramis touched where he remembered feeling the ball the day before, but it was gone—where could it have gone?—no, there it was, and relief vied with regret as pain rippled out from his pressing fingers.

Porthos's hand encircled his wrist. "Don't poke it," he grumbled, "you've gone bloody white again."

"You said it wasn't bad," came d'Artagnan's voice.

Aramis looked up and saw that d'Artagnan and Athos had joined them. "It's not," he insisted, "as these things go."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

Athos stepped over to Aramis' far side and crouched beside him, offering his flask. Aramis drank gratefully as d'Artagnan moved the saddles out of the way and put a blanket down in their place, and then he and Athos supported Aramis as he lay down; it was better than doing it himself, but not by much. Lying back on the woolen blanket, Aramis looked up at them and said, just this side of complaining, "I look forward to not being shot anymore. It is very tedious."

"Two minutes," Porthos promised. There were rustling and clinking and pouring sounds as he laid out what he would need, and then Aramis felt the blanket being folded and tucked under his side so that he would bleed onto the ground instead of onto the wool. Aramis felt himself start to sweat. He was no stranger to the pain of having a musket ball cut out, and he wasn't afraid, exactly, but he didn't look forward to it either. Aramis reached up to grasp his left shoulder with his right hand, as he had asked his own patients to do many times, and Athos's hand settled on top of his. Lightly, for now.

Porthos took a moment to educate d'Artagnan on the finer points of running your knife through a flame—near the wood or the wick where it was hottest, mind, not just anywhere up in the orange bits—then Aramis heard a cork being pulled and smelled his own aqua vita. He felt Athos take his left hand, too, and squeeze gently to remind Aramis what he should do any moment now.

Porthos's hand, warm and calloused, on his side.

Porthos saying, "Deep breath."

He obeyed.

"Let it out."

Halfway through the exhale came the sting, and Aramis closed his hand tightly on Athos'. God, how he hated the feeling of a knife scraping on a musket ball. Porthos was saying something, another lesson for d'Artagnan, by his tone, but Aramis couldn't quite make out the words as the ball shifted inside him. Then came a dull prod and Aramis knew what the lesson was: if you can't get it with the knife alone, use your fingers.

The fire in his side flexed, widened, and sent off bursts like fireworks that traveled up his chest and down his legs, and he felt himself make a low, distressed sound. Athos's hand pressed on his shoulder, just enough. And then—

"Got it."

There was the release of a pressure he hadn't even noticed, like the feeling of a joint being set, and he gasped. From somewhere down by his knees he heard D'Artagnan saying, "It's alright, it's out, it's out."

Aramis blinked up at the clear blue sky and focused on catching his breath. Porthos wiped his side with a cloth, which hurt, then pressed it against the incision, which also hurt—but something about the quality of the silence made Aramis shift his gaze over to Porthos, who was frowning. He didn't trust his voice yet, so he asked the question with his eyebrows instead.

Porthos lifted a red-streaked hand to show Aramis a clump of something slick and black. "It's not bleeding much fresh, but I got a load of this old stuff out with the ball, and it looks like there's plenty more still in there."

Aramis' eyes wanted to close, so he let them. He hurt. He was tired. And he didn't want to tell Porthos to do what he should probably tell Porthos to do.

"Aramis?" That was Athos—not worried, just chiding him. "Stay awake."

"What is it?"

And that was Treville.

 _Don't tell me that bloody shot actually hit him._

 _Afraid so. Sorry, captain..._

Under the voices of the past, Aramis heard Porthos explain the successful extraction and the discovery of how much blood had accumulated around the ball.

"Alright," Treville said. "Get out what you can without cutting him any more."

Aramis heard Treville kneel at his head. He opened his eyes and saw Treville's face above him, upside down—just like Marsac had seen Aramis all those years ago. "Like old times, eh, captain?"

"No Huguenots," Treville pointed out. So the past had been on his mind, as well.

Aramis closed his eyes again. _And no Marsac._

Porthos must have given some signal, because the hands on his shoulders and legs tightened all at once. "Ready?"

In answer, Aramis took a deep breath. As he let it out, Porthos began to drag the edge of his hand along the ball's path, gathering the old blood under Aramis' skin and pressing it towards the incision where, like the ball, it could spill out instead of festering inside him. It was the thing to do, but Mother of God, this hurt, and unlike the relatively quick removal of the ball, it went ruthlessly on and on. Aramis tried to channel the pain into squeezing Athos' hand and digging his nails into his own shoulder, but it soon overwhelmed him and he tried to curl up around his wounded side. Strong hands, and possibly a couple of knees, held him down.

And then the pressure was gone, but not the pain. Aramis' whole stomach and chest were seized with it, and he could only take small, ragged breaths. He felt like he was drowning.

But Aramis had learned to control his breathing as a boy practicing marksmanship, long before he'd begun getting shot and stabbed with such distressing regularity, so although it wasn't easy, he forced each breath to come a little deeper, a little slower. Athos and Porthos held his hands, Treville was cradling his head, the hand on his knee was d'Artagnan, as they waited for him to master himself. They'd all had moments like this—well, maybe not D'Artagnan, but he would. Aramis drew calm from the warmth of their touch, and breathed the tension out of his body.

"That's it," said Porthos.

Aramis knew what they would want to see, so he opened his eyes, and four worried faces looked back at him. He attempted a reassuring smile and said, "I'm alright. It was just a—"

"Shh," said two or three voices.

"—strange sensation," Aramis finished.

Athos hmphed at the understatement.

"Sorry about that," Porthos said to Aramis, his eyes saying how much he had not enjoyed the process. "But it was probably a good idea."

Aramis turned his head and looked down. There was Porthos' neat, straight incision in his side, trickling a thin red line, and below it, beginning to slump into the dirt, was a fist-sized mound of old, congealing blood. He made a noise at once disgusted and impressed.

"Yeah," said Porthos. With a scrap of bandage, he corralled the unappealing mass and deposited it out of the way. "You alright for me to clean these up, or do you want a minute? The truth, now."

"Go ahead," Aramis told him. "I'm fine."

Skeptical looks again. Why didn't anyone trust him?

Porthos took his tankard from where it had been warming by the fire and, dipping a handkerchief in the water, wiped the blood from his hands and then moved on to cleaning the blood, old and new, from Aramis—who, to prove his state of relative health, looked up and asked Treville, "When are we planning to leave, captain?"

"The Bishop's in no hurry, now that last night's trouble has moved on. You'll probably be ready to set out before he is."

Athos raised an eyebrow at Treville. "Aramis isn't riding, is he?"

"Of course not. I already asked, and the Bishop would be happy to have you join him in the cart, Aramis."

"I can r—"

"Consider it an order."

Aramis closed his mouth. After ten years, he knew that tone well, and if he was honest with himself, it had only been a token protest.

Porthos chuckled. "You can ask the Bishop about your shirt."

"Ask him about Vannes," Athos advised. "If our breakfast chat was anything to go by, he'll detail its virtues from here to Paris and you can get some sleep while he talks."

"Weren't we in Vannes once?" Aramis asked Porthos, who was wringing his bloody handkerchief onto the ground. "Twenty-seven, twenty-eight? The exact year is escaping me, possibly overshadowed in my memory by a very charming girl called Rosalie..."

"You were there for six weeks in twenty-eight," Treville informed him. "Now save your breath, you're not fooling anyone. And you are riding in the cart."

Aramis sighed, carefully.

Porthos held up the small glass bottle where Aramis could see it, and Aramis nodded.

"Breathe," Porthos reminded him. "And keep breathing." He poured a thin steam of spirits over the entry wound, catching the excess in a bit of fresh folded cloth. The burn felt bone-deep, and Aramis groaned—but he kept breathing. Porthos cleaned the incision, too, then unfolded the wet cloth and draped it over Aramis' side so it covered both wounds. "Last thing," he promised Aramis, "then I'll stop pestering you."

Athos counted to three, then he and Porthos lifted Aramis' shoulders off the ground until Treville could get a knee behind him and hold him up. Aramis watched Pothos pass the end of a bandage to Athos, who passed it back to him under Aramis' back. When Porthos pulled the bandage tight, it squeezed a fresh trickle of burning spirits into the wounds and Aramis started. Treville's hold on him tightened. "Easy," Treville said. "Almost there."

Aramis let his head rest in the crook of Treville's arm, and closed his eyes.

Three or four passes of the bandage later, Treville lowered Aramis to the ground again, where the back of his head met not the wool blanket but something softer, like a folded shirt or scarf. Aramis felt someone fuss with the bandage for a moment, and then a wave of warmth as a blanket settled over his bare torso and was tucked carefully around his sides. It was only slightly less wonderful than the knowledge that his wounds would be left alone for a bit. They hurt, but not so terribly, now; he'd definitely fallen asleep with worse.

"Wake me when it's time," Aramis murmured. He meant to prove that he was falling asleep rather than passing out, but he barely heard or understood himself speaking and feared he hadn't made his point.

"We will. Get some rest till then, alright?" Porthos' voice, and Porthos' hand on his shoulder. _Should have known Porthos would understand..._

Aramis dreamed.

~~~~1621~~~~

Marsac was feeling better—at least, that's what he claimed. Aramis heard the real, unspoken request under his words, which was to get the hell out of the infirmary tent, so he promised Saint-Simon he'd look after his friend, and they walked out together.

"You don't have to do that," Marsac said, nodding to where Aramis kept a firm grip on his elbow.

"Five sou says Saint-Simon is watching us," Aramis said. "He didn't want to let you leave. If you fall, it's back to the infirmary and Jouffret's snoring, but if you don't want my help..."

"I take it back," Marsac said, putting his hand over Aramis'. "Do not, under any circumstances, let go of me. Jouffret must be part wild boar, I've never heard a noise like that from a human throat before."

Marsac began the walk trying not to limp, but as they crossed the yard, the hitch in his step became more and more pronounced, and he really was leaning his weight into Aramis, who put the other hand on his arm, as well.

"Almost there," he said.

"I'm fine," Marsac panted.

But when Marsac ducked beneath the canvas flap to get into the tent, his knees buckled and he continued down to the ground until he caught himself with one knee and his other hand.

"Whoa, whoa," Aramis said, trying to slow his descent.

"...fine...," came a weak protest.

"Shut up." Aramis was kneeling, too, with one arm around Marsac's waist and the other still on his elbow. He listened until Marsac's breathing evened out, then said, in a milder tone, "Did you tear anything?"

"Don't think so."

"Into bed, then, come on. One, two, three—"

The advantage of a small tent was that the cot was practically at Marsac's back; with a little forethought and a shallow lunge, Aramis could probably have directed his initial fall there. But all Marsac had to do was half stand, with Aramis' help, and then sit again when he felt the edge of the cot nudge the back of his knee. He hung his head and pressed a hand to his wounded side.

"Are you sure you didn't tear something?" Aramis reached for Marsac's wrist, wanting to see for himself, but he stopped when he saw blood dripping from his own fingers. "What...?" Aramis looked down and there was a dark patch spreading across his doublet. He looked back at Marsac, who stared at him blankly, then something wet and hot rolled down his face into his eyes, and when he tried to protest, _This never happened,_ his mouth filled with blood, too—

~~~~1631~~~~

"Aramis?"

His side still hurt. There was a hand on his shoulder. Not shaking, just resting. D'Artagnan.

Unlike some Musketeers, Aramis was not prone to waking violently, even from bad dreams. He'd told d'Artagnan early on, so their new companion would know that he didn't risk a black eye every time he roused Aramis for his watch, and d'Artagnan had laughed and said, _I'll be sure to thank the widows and spinsters of Paris._

Aramis could feel phantom blood on his face. It itched.

"Aramis?"

"Mmph." Aramis squinted up at d'Artagnan; the sun had moved almost overhead. "How long was I asleep?"

"About an hour and a half. They're not quite done with the tents, but we thought you'd rather not be the absolute last thing on the cart."

Meaning he wouldn't care to have everyone already mounted up, with nothing to do but watch him make his painful way down to the road. "Thank you," Aramis said. He freed one hand from the blanket and held it up. D'Artagnan clasped it, then added a hand on Aramis' back as he pulled him up to sitting. The motion woke the fire in his side, and Aramis let out a long, slow breath. D'Artagnan squeezed his shoulder lightly in sympathy and waited.

When Aramis looked up, he couldn't quite read d'Artagnan's expression. "What?"

D'Artganan shrugged one shoulder. "You feel warm."

"Hm." Aramis touched his cheek, but of course he couldn't tell. A fever might explain the strange dream, though... "A little warm, or very warm?" He rubbed his forehead to banish the lingering feeling of blood on his face.

D'Artagnan touched Aramis' shoulder again, with the backs of his fingers. "A little, I suppose."

"It happens. Better warm than cold at this stage, in my experience." Aramis spotted a fresh, folded shirt resting on d'Artagnan's knee and nodded toward it. "Not too warm for that, at any rate."

D'Artagnan took the hint. He shook the shirt out and helped Aramis find the sleeves, then lifted the loose garment over his head for him and tugged it into place. Aramis fastened the ties to close the shirt's deep neck and smiled. "A clean shirt always makes me feel like a new man." D'Artagnan didn't smile back, though, and Aramis sighed. He knew he had frightened his friend, though he would never say as much.

"D'Artagnan," he said seriously, and waited until the younger man met his eyes. "I will be fine."

After a moment, d'Artagnan nodded.

"I'll admit it's been a bit of a rough morning," Aramis went on, "but we'll be in Paris before dark, Treville will tell me to take whatever time I need, I'll rest for a couple of days, and by Monday I'll be game for everything except wrestling Porthos."

D'Artagnan didn't look convinced. "Will you truly rest?"

Aramis held up his right hand. "On my honor, I will spend the remainder of the week reading in bed."

"Sitting up," d'Artagnan pointed out.

"Against pillows," Aramis countered.

"Alright." D'Artagnan finally smiled before adding with a sly eyebrow, "Alone?"

"Yes, alone! I'll thrash you up and down the courtyard for that."

"I look forward to it." D'Artagnan rose to one knee. "Shall we?"

They clasped each other's elbows, and d'Artagnan counted to three and stood up, pulling Aramis up with him. It hurt, of course, but Aramis was pleasantly surprised when his head stayed clear. He even stood under his own power for a moment while d'Artagnan picked up the blankets Aramis had been sleeping on and under, shook them out, and tucked them under his arm. Aramis stopped d'Artagnan from pulling his good arm across his shoulders, though.

"I think you're a bit tall for that to be comfortable at the moment. I'll just... hang on to you, if you don't mind." He hooked his hand over d'Artagnan's near shoulder and gestured toward the road, with a flourish to make up for the lack of a bow.

As they walked, slowly, Aramis said, "You should learn to do that, you know. Get at a musket ball with a knife."

"Isn't it just like doing anything else with a knife? Mind the divot there."

"Well, Porthos makes it look easy. He says it's just like picking a lock." Aramis sidestepped the treacherous shadow with a wince. "But the dexterity isn't the hard part, it's more a matter of..."

"Digging around inside your friends while they writhe in pain?" d'Artagnan offered.

"I wasn't going to put it like that."

"No, thank you," d'Artagnan said. "How about we all try not to get shot?"

"We've joined the wrong profession for that, my friend." Aramis patted d'Artagnan's shoulder. "We'll at least get you started picking locks."

As they drew closer to the road, Aramis saw that Athos and Porthos had claimed the rear-guard position, so that only a few of the Bishop's mounted retainers would ride between them and the cart; it was the closest they could get to Aramis and still reasonably claim to be guarding the train and not just keeping an eye on their wounded friend. Athos held the reins of d'Artagnan's horse, and Aramis' was tied to Porthos' saddle. Porthos raised a hand in greeting when he saw them coming, and Athos nodded. Aramis went to touch the brim of his hat and remembered he wasn't wearing it.

"In the cart already," d'Artagnan said. "With your coat and weapons."

"Ah, thank you." They were almost at the road, and d'Artagnan pointed to a spot where the downward grade seemed most forgiving. He went first and helped Aramis down by the hand, as if the musketeer were a lady alighting from her carriage.

Climbing up into cart proved a bigger challenge, and by the time Aramis was settled in a nest of what must have been every blanket in the regiment, he knew he'd gone pale again and feared he felt a spot of wetness on the bandages. It would be just his luck to bleed on two shirts in one day.

"Wave if you need anything."

"I will."

D'Artganan vaulted lightly over the side of the cart, young show-off that he was, and went to join the others. No sooner had Aramis closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the side of the cart than there came a general bustle: the Bishop had arrived.

The cart rocked as he took a place on the other side of the cart. "Monsieur—Aramis, is it?—Monsieur Aramis, are you badly hurt? I was so relieved to see you walking with your friend just now. It cannot be too bad, surely?"

The man actually seemed anxious to know, so Aramis opened his eyes, summoned a reassuring smile, and said, "It is hardly more than a scratch, Your Excellency. Your concern is too kind."

"On the contrary, I cannot thank you enough for your brave service in my defense. I know it is your duty as a soldier, but a duty well done is a commendable thing indeed, I've always thought. You would be welcome as my guest in Vannes any time—well, any time after my business in Paris in concluded, God grant it be expedient. I can't stand the place, never could, and it will be uninhabitable in a matter of weeks. My little city on the water, on the other hand, is an absolute jewel in the summer. Tell me, Monsieur Aramis, have you ever been to Vannes?"

Aramis let his eyes close again. Maybe this time he would dream of Rosalie...


End file.
